Jòia
by sewn
Summary: Spring comes to Arborlon, and with it, new life. [Allanon/Mareth, sex pollen fic.]


_A/N: This story contains incest and mpreg (impregnation only)._

* * *

It was winter when they first fell into bed. The cold of the road pushed them to to seek warmth in each other under a shared blanket. Mareth's desire for her father had been a slow-burning fire for months, but it took the shape of his hardening cock against her back for her to realize her feelings weren't unreturned; for nights, neither dared take the final step, staying silent, clutching each other in their sleep, until Mareth couldn't take it anymore and turned in Allanon's arms to take his mouth in a kiss, thrilled with shame that soon melted into giddy pleasure.

Spring approaches when they return to Arborlon. Mareth—Queen now, if only in name—doesn't especially enjoy the marble arches and the pillars of granite of the palace and her gilded halls, but she is happy to see the Garden of Life again. This is her favourite place in all of Arborlon: the neat hedges and flowerbeds the Chosen tend to, the wilder parts she's decreed are to remain free to grow as they want, the fiery, fragrant witch hazel, the sprawling hawthorn. Above it all rises the Ellcrys, evergreen, her blood-red leaves turning the colour of summer wine as the days grow longer.

The forests around the castle-city of Arborlon offer solace, too. One day they trek down towards the valley where the waters of the Rill Song flow. Eschewing the trodden path, Allanon leads her towards an old druids' circle, now in ruins but forming a protective ring around a clearing. As she steps into it, Mareth feels the hum of old magic under her feet, full of memory. Of desire. Delighted, she grasps her father's hand and pulls him to her.

"Someone could find us," Allanon says, but he wraps his arm around her waist and his breath caresses the tip of her ear.

"Come on." Mareth slips her fingers under a belt buckle. "No one comes here," she whispers before licking at his neck, enjoying the scrape of his beard on her lips.

Allanon is no match for her as usual. Once undressed, Mareth pushes him onto his back on the grass. Mareth is happy that it's warm enough to do this outside, too, free of rough cloth. The grass wouldn't be quite as soft if it wasn't her calling it out of the soil with her magic, the scent of flowers as sweet—she knows even now her father disapproves of the unrestrained flow of her magic, but she silences all criticism with another kiss.

Astride him, sliding a hand up his chest, Mareth feels like she's right where she should be—_home_. It is a curious feeling after years of nomadic existence, but it has been growing steadily inside her over the last year.

They haven't been able to sleep together in the palace, and already after a few days, Mareth is filled with a yearning for his body, having him under her, where he belongs. She makes to move up so she could get his mouth where it should be, too, she gets the familiar ache as her sensitive skin drags over the length of his hardened cock but—

Allanon's gasp makes Mareth glance down.

"Oh," she murmurs as she extends, by instinct, one tendril to caress his taut stomach. More sprout from between her legs, pale green, young vines, growing thicker as they come out. It should be odd or scary, but it's not: Mareth's hand is drawn to the root of one of the thicker vines. She feels it as if her own flesh on flesh.

The vines are peppered with vivid pink protuberances; they glisten, wet and sticky, and Mareth strokes one with her thumb—the sensation makes her muscles clench inside, it is as if—

The little bump bursts open and a glob of slime drips down her thumb, a light pink substance filled with dark green seeds. So that's what—

"What is this?" she still asks, voice coming out low. The waves of Allanon's thoughts lap against hers—he's worried, for her sake, and Mareth gently wraps some smaller vines around his cock to soothe him. It leaves her fingers free to card through his hair.

"I believe you have been, ah -" Allanon's breath stutters as the vines rub and squeeze, "- pollinated. I didn't think you'd -" he gasps, swallowing the rest.

Mareth thinks back on her nights in the Garden of Life. The sweetness of the air, the delicious scratch of the bark under her cheek. Just as her body misses her father whenever they are apart, she has felt an ache for the Ellcrys too. Being in her presence calms Mareth, body and mind, and she has spent more than one night in her shade. It felt right—just as this does.

As she grows used to the new sensations in her body, the mounting ache inside her is starting to take a new shape—it's almost like her magic bubbling under her skin, waiting to be released—it's instinctual, like her body already knows what to do even if her head doesn't. What has been grown inside her needs to be planted.

She guides Allanon to draw his knees up so she can better settle down. The vines help; some of them wrap instantly around his thighs to hold him in position. She can feel his mind relax against hers, like he does whenever she guides him where he should be. The vines snake slowly up his belly, a soft ripple on his skin that travels to her nerves through their connection. Mareth can't yet read his mind in full, but in desire, their minds braid together.

Despite the daze of pleasure, Allanon's body still tenses up when Mareth's vines slither down and rub over his thin, sensitive skin.

"Shh, hey," Mareth says. She would never hurt him. She reaches to grab his hand so she can twine her fingers with him. To assure him, she massages him without breaching him so he'll feel the slickness. Mareth keeps her stroking light and slow; she squeezes gently with the vine around his cock.

Mareth's skin tingles as she pushes the first vine in. His body welcomes it, and her eyes are fixed on his face, his furrowed brow and tightly shut eyes.

"That's good," she says softly and leans down to reward him with a kiss. She licks into his hot, slick mouth as another vine joins the first. The way is smooth but his body is tight around her, and when he lifts his hips just a little it makes her gasp against his cheek. There's a pulsing in the roots of the vines where they are attached to her body. She aches, knowing only she needs to fill him further. She lets her body do what it wants, enjoying how her hands are free to travel up and down his chest, his arms.

The little sound of distress that escapes his lips makes her pause and sit up.

"You're good. So good." Mareth says, quickly and softly, and brushes her thumb over the soft round shell of his ear. "You can take more."

He _can_—she lets another vine push its slick head into him, and another. She keeps on rubbing at him inside where it sends waves of pleasure through him.

"One more, okay?" Mareth pushes the tip in; with the rest of the vines, strong and sturdy, she keeps his thighs in place too just in case his body resists. His entrance is stretched to the full and it makes some of the seed-knots burst against the rim, makes him draw in quick shallow breaths.

The vines move deeper into Allanon, coiling up, making his body accommodate them all—but that's not quite enough—Mareth curls a few thinner tendrils around the head of his cock. She's aware of the emptiness inside his length, how he aches there too. His cock has prepared itself for this with precome. She slips a tendril into the hole.

The touch is foreign to him, and the apprehension travels through Mareth; she slowly works the tendril in and out, stretching the hole.

"How does it feel?" she whispers, wanting confirmation, breathy, pushing a little deeper, an inch, then halfway down.

Allanon blinks his eyes, a little confused, wets his lips. "Ah, that's -" he moans as her first tendril reaches the end of its journey down his cock, "Oh, Ellcrys."

Mareth lets more of the little vines join the first, filling his cock tendril by tendril, enjoying the blossoming of a newfound pleasure as the tube inside his cock expands. She prods around, delighted to find the softness of his body giving way to her everywhere she's stuffed him full, in his ass and his cock. It hurts him a little, but Mareth is as aware of the limits of his body as hers.

"You don't need to worry. I know what you can take." She rubs at his nipples with her fingers and enjoys the sparks of pleasure that travel all over his skin. He bites his lip—Allanon doesn't like to make sound, Mareth knows, and though she wishes he wasn't so coy about his pleasure, she helps him and pushes some strong vines into his mouth to gag him. They're dripping too so they aren't too rough on his lips.

"It's okay," Mareth says as she feels his worrying that he'll bite her. "It doesn't hurt me."

That's not quite true—she feels it when she flexes her vines inside him and his teeth sink into her—but she likes the hurt, it is sweet—it only makes her stroke him harder inside his ass and cock, head dizzy with their shared arousal moving back and forth, somehow more intense than ever before.

Allanon seems to want to explore the sensation as well—he sucks on one of the bumps—Mareth's vines pulse, the clench of his body is perfect around them, his tongue on her—and then she's bursting, every inch of her singing with pleasure.

The orgasm is different too, it seems to go on and on, and her muscles tremble somewhere deep inside as she's tipped over the edge again and again, rocked by waves, the seeds forced out of her until she's panting, arms trembling, drops of her sweat hitting his skin.

Allanon's cock twitches as he comes, and the constriction around the tendrils, now forming an unyielding column, stings him in a way they haven't felt before. Mareth's little vines block the flow of his own semen; this space is all for her now. She's suddenly coming again too, pumping his cock as full as she can. The tendrils push the slime and the seeds further into him.

Mareth feels an ache in his chest echoed in hers, and only now realises that in her aroused state she's pushed the vines in his mouth down his throat, made him swallow her seeds. Quickly, she pulls them out, bends down to meet his sore lips in apology, a lazy, slack-mouthed kiss, licks away the salt from his cheeks, draws soothing circles on his skin with the tips of her fingers and vines.

After a few moments of soft touches and murmurs, Mareth gets up to her knees, curious. Her vines still stay in and around Allanon. Some of the liquid trickles out of his ass from under the vines, but it's clear. She strokes her palm over the mound of his lower belly, then feels the shape and weight of his testicles, which too are filled to the brim with the seeds the Ellcrys birthed in her.

Mareth herself is filled with a feeling of incredible fondness and purpose. Even here, she feels a connection to the Ellcrys, grateful for the privilege of being a pistil to her stamen. She settles down again, head on her father's chest, feeling the thrum of his heart.

"Let's stay for a while." Mareth strokes Allanon's cheek with a newly grown tendril, which has burst out with a little flower, the petals pale pink and green. She can sense it is already growing more seeds in its heart. She'll soon have more to fill him with.

Around them, new flowers bloom, the grass moves in a gentle breeze, the first of the finches sing: spring is here.


End file.
